Ah! The NHS...
Few years back, I ended up in the clap clinic at St Thomas' hospital. I hadn't actually been sticking Mr Wiggly in anyone at that time, I just happened to have a clueless GP.

Rewind three/four weeks (wavy lines optional here) and I'd woken up with a bit of an itch. When I say 'bit', I mean an infuriating one. It would be terrible in the mornings, when I was in the shower and it drove me insane to the point of scratching until my arms and legs bled. Naturally, I did what any sensible rational human being would do and looked up itching symptoms on t'internet.

10 minutes later and I have diagnosed myself with 5 potentially fatal diseases revolving around liver and kidney failure - I am, in short, convinced that I'm on 7.15 to the pearly gates. So, I run down to my GP insisting that even if the 7.15 is run by Stagecoach and unlikely to be leaving any time soon I want to be seen immediately. Eventually, he agrees and after a bit of poking and prodding admits he doesn't have a clue, takes a half dozen phials of blood to have it checked out and tells me to come back in a week.

One week passes. All is not well. Not only is the scratching driving me insane but I now have spots on my giblets. I have never had spotted dick before and trust me I wouldn't recommend it. The internet is now saying that I have Lupus and that my only chance is if Dr Gregory House MD ceases to be a fictional character. Bollocks. My doctor takes one glance at my wang and immediately diagnoses syphilis. I think he just wanted me out of there as quickly as my spotty bollocks would carry me. And so off he sent me to the Lydia clinic at St Thomas' hospital.

They're very caring at the Lydia. Hell, to put you at your ease they have (had?) cock shaped name tags in the men's clinic. How amusing! Writing "Hi, my name is Carl" in the nutsack of a downward pointing cock and balls. So amusing that I'll forget that I feel totally humiliated to be here. Oh. Anyhoo, sitting and waiting in the hall of shame for my name to be called out with all the other sheepish nice white middle class boys who've been less than careful where they stick their favourite bit of their anatomy and out she walks. This vision of breathtaking Mediterranean loveliness. She's got long black hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones and a bottom to die for. She picks up a file and every man in that room sat up, turned towards her as one and for 1 second begged that it was their file.

And then we all realised what she was there to do.

"Mr Sugar-tits? Would you like to come with me please?"

I'm sitting there thinking, NO, NO, NO, NO, I would not like to come with you and show you my spotty cock. I get up and feel like I'm walking the Green Mile. I notice the pity etched into the other waiting room victims, as in my mind Tom Hanks calls "Dead Man Walking".

So, Dr Lovely takes me down the corridor to her little room at the end and I am panicking. How the hell do I stop this angelic piece of perfection from seeing my diseased bits? I flirt. As some sort of nervous reaction I start cracking jokes and flirting. And I'm great. She's laughing and we're getting on and then I run out of steam. Shit.

"Okay, well I suppose you'd better drop your trousers then."
"And my pants?"
"What do you think?"

The burning noise in my ears and the rising flush on my cheeks was now only punctuated by the 'schlapp' as she snapped on the surgical glove with which she was going to manhandle me.

And then she picked it up. My mind starts working overtime as to how the hell I can prevent the little fella from waking up. ABCDs, 43 times table, counting sheep counting sheep, Margaret Thatcher and Douglas Hurd getting it on. And I'm doing okay, Yes, I am. Then she starts to roll it in her fingers to get a better look. And then the little shit starts to wake up. I let out an involuntary whine and look down at her - and with Mr Floppy rapidly engorging himself into Mr Sausage in her hand without pausing for a breath she looks up at me with a smile and says "Oh! I'm so sorry."

It was without doubt one of the sexiest looks I've ever been witness to. I grab my pants and trousers up and sit down as quickly as I can leaning forward to try and hide the fact that Mr Sausage is now shouting angrily in my pants - confused at the fact that he's being locked up at his crowning moment of glory. I meanwhile am going from puce to beetroot as Dr Lovely asks to see my hand.

"Aha! I thought so - your GP really should have seen this straight away - you've got scabies. Don't worry you probably picked it up off a bus seat. I'll give you a prescription for some lotion."

And with that, she was gone. Although she did send me to get checked out by a very large disapproving Jamaican gentleman wielding one of those nasty sticks that they stick down your chap. All I can say was that he was quite vehement in his disapproval of the young men that came before him. Jamaicans have that sort of unique way of letting you know what a bad individual you are. Sucking through the teeth, tutting and then ramming a scraping stick into your Jap's eye. Oh Dr Lovely, I'd let 500 angry Jamaicans thrust scraping sticks into me for another 5 minutes with you....
(sugar_tits, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 20:02, 1 reply)

Margaret Thatcher and Douglas Hurd getting it on?
fwap fwap fwap
(Helmut McBucket invites you to pull his finger on, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 0:08, closed)